The Island House

by Posie Graeme-Evans

  Perhaps I am a demon. Perhaps that is good. He bared his teeth suddenly, a flash of white, and hissed. A frightened waaaaaah came from the women. Several of Solwaer’s men rushed forward, spears and swords held high.

  “Our Lord takes his seat!”

  There was a raised dais beyond the fire pit. On it stood a large wooden stool draped with rich pelts of fox and wolf and white winter hare. A man was standing beside the empty honor seat, and he held up one hand, announcing again, in a strong voice, “Lord Solwaer is in his hall.”

  Curtains of ocher red hung over a doorway behind the dais. The man, Fiachna—Solwaer’s chief housecarl—pulled the hanging back, and Bear had his first sight of Solwaer since the violent blur in the Abbey church.

  Since they were separated by a considerable space, Bear thought Solwaer must be a young man, but as the Chieftain sat, and Bear was shoved forward by the guard, he saw deep lines etched into Solwaer’s face and white streaks in his hair.

  So, not young, not old.

  Fiachna spoke again. “Solwaer, our Lord, sits in judgment on this man, who has murdered one of our comrades.”

  Portsol’s Chieftain stared down at Bear. “You may think it is good that you are still alive here, in this hall. But I can promise that soon”—he smiled quite kindly, and those around the dais drew back; Solwaer famously smiled often but was no man’s friend—“soon, you will not think that breath in your chest, blood in your veins is good. To breathe will be pain, and your blood will find another home besides your heart. The floor beneath my feet.” Mothers covered the eyes of their excited children, and some left with the very youngest.

  Solwaer paused as the crowd settled again. “But why do I waste my breath with this savage? An ignorant, dumb brute. An animal herder. And like an animal, he will be butchered when that is useful to his masters.”

  Solwaer laughed loudly at his own joke, and merriment swept the hall. This was what they liked, a good show on a cold night.

  Bear nodded, completely calm; he even chuckled with the crowd. “Lord? Perhaps I may speak?”

  Silence preceded a rising babble. A good death, even of a slave, was a thing to be appreciated. This man had courage.

  Solwaer held up his hand for silence. “Perhaps you understand what I say, but that will not help you. Speak, if you like—it will be the last exercise your tongue will have. With words, that is.” Another guffaw, happily echoed.

  Bear did not acknowledge the taunt, and he did not blink as he stared at Solwaer.

  The guard stirred uneasily. Though the slave was well bound, he had the air of a man preparing himself.

  “And I say that I will meet death, when it comes, on my feet with my hands unbound. And my death will not be tonight.” This had the air of prophecy, and an interested ripple passed through the crowd. Perhaps the man was a shaman?

  Solwaer frowned. “You are stupid after all. I shall choose the time and place of your extinction, not you, slave.”

  Bear expanded his chest and raised his battered head. He loomed taller than Fiachna, even though the man stood on the dais. “I am a freeman, not a slave. I have a lineage, and you are not my lord.”

  A collective gasp, like a wave up the beach that would not be stopped.

  The Chieftain gestured at the ropes binding Bear’s hands. Fiachna shot his lord a glance, would have spoken, but a hand was raised. “Do it. He will not be a trouble to us much longer, this Demon.”

  Reluctantly, one of the guards stepped forward with a dagger in his fist; another stood close with a raised sword.

  “You may recite your lineage, poor though it will undoubtedly be, and then you will die as you have lived. Like a dog.” Solwaer’s tone was soft, but the sneer was audible.

  The rope fell from Bear’s hands. He flexed his fingers and then his arms. The guards gripped their weapons; they would not have unbound the Demon, but then, none of them was Solwaer.

  Bear’s breath was deep, as if to plunge into the winter sea. He said, loudly, “My father’s name was Ragnar, son of Iarl, son of Othere, son of Britwulf Ironhand. I am full brother to Grimor.”

  Solwaer leaned forward, but only a little. Perhaps he was interested, perhaps he was uncomfortable on the stool.

  “At my birth I was named Magni for the son of Thor, though now I am called Bear. When I was young, I was among Reimer’s band, which burned this coast and the island.”

  The watchers exchanged astonished glances, and a gathering roar ripped the gloom like wind.

  Bear was unmoved as shouting men drew swords and waved them, feinting toward where he stood.

  The Chieftain ignored the howling mob. He raised a hand to Fiachna. Stepping forward to the front of the dais, the chief carl roared, “Silence! Silence for Lord Solwaer.”

  Like a brook in high summer, sound settled to a mutter.

  Bear stared around the hall. Unblinking, he searched the faces of each man, each woman, and even the children. He would remember them should they meet again.

  Solwaer waved an impatient hand. “Continue.”

  Bear nodded. “When Findnar was burned, forty seasons ago, I was left behind.” He touched the raised scars on his bloodied face. “This was my legacy. Perhaps it was my punishment; that is what the people of Christ said, though they healed me, mended my legs. They even tried to save my pretty face.” He laughed.

  None in the hall responded. It was sobering to see a man who had been part of such destruction, even if it had been so many years ago.

  “Believe me, the face you see here is an improvement, though some have called me Demon.” He smiled, blank-eyed. “Then there came a time when I tried to leave the island. I was still a child. We stole a ship, and the woman you saw in the Abbey church was a child then, too, Lord Solwaer, but she was brave, and this place, Portsol, was the home of her clan. We sailed the ship here, Signy and I.”

  The hall was silent as Bear stared at Solwaer. “Nine summers ago the houses here were deserted. Some were burned. Perhaps Reimer had sacked this place, perhaps another band had been here. There was no one left to tell us what had happened and, because we had stolen a vessel and her clan home lay ruined, Signy said we must return the craft to the people of Christ or we would be cursed. As this place had been cursed and devastated.”

  Solwaer stared hard at Bear. “There is no curse, animal herder. Portsol prospers because I am its lord.”

  Bear bowed his head, a small acknowledgment. His teeth glinted, caught in the glow of the fire pit. “And so we went back to the island. In time Signy promised to marry the Christian God, for that is one of the things they do, and she felt compelled to atone.” Perhaps, in the end, he was economical with the truth.

  There were jeers from some of the men in the hall.

  Bear glanced at the most insulting, and they fell silent. “Yes, I was an animal herder. I plowed their land and sowed their crops, and I became a smith for them, and a carver.” They had not found the knife in his leggings. Bear bent, and held his arm high. The blade flashed.

  Fiachna would have jumped from the dais, but men close to Bear drew back. An armed demon was a different matter.

  Bear saw them shuffle away. He laughed.

  Solwaer’s eyes narrowed; now he did lean forward. “You made this?”

  “I did, great Lord. Forged this blade, carved the hilt.” Bear stepped a pace closer and, for a moment, the men locked glances. Never taking his eyes from Solwaer’s, Bear placed the knife at the other man’s feet and stepped away. “My gift to you.”

  A sigh swept the crowd. Carvers were sorcerers, that was well known: they took the soul of what they copied and put that into the work so the object became magical, imbued with the power of the original. Smiths, too, could not be trusted—they dealt with earth magic, iron made from fire.

  Solwaer nodded, slowly and deliberately. “I accept this gift, but it will not save you, Demon. Perhaps it will take your liver.” The Chieftain gestured to Fiachna. The chief carl picked up the dagger and handed it to
his lord; perhaps the otter pleased him, for Solwaer waved to Bear almost cordially. “And?”

  Bear turned to the crowd. “This was the price I paid. I, son of Ragnar, son of Iarl, son of Othere, son of Britwulf Ironhand, became a herder. I learned much, and I have not come here to die.” He whirled around and pointed at the man on the dais. “Solwaer, I will serve you usefully, for a time, but as a free man.”

  The Chieftain stood. He flicked a plaid shawl around his shoulders and faced the hall, firelight gilding the bleak planes of his face. “Yet, Demon, there is blood debt for the man you killed.” His eyes flared as coals crumbled into the fire pit—the tone was a taunt.

  Bear raised his hand. Swords around him flinched forward, but he smiled. “I will pay it. I shall carve for you and smith for you, as I did for the monks. What great chief ever has enough war weapons or things of value for his hall, or for himself?”

  Solwaer did not respond.

  Bear half-smiled and said, politely, “And perhaps in time I shall take up the trade I was trained for. A seaborne fighter. Then I may be more useful still.”

  Solwaer grunted. The people began to mutter and shift as he settled himself in the honor seat once more. “What do you want?”

  “Only that which is mine and your help to take it back.”

  The girl. Solwaer blinked. He waved a hand dismissively. “Put him back where you got him. I shall think on this.”

  He could have fought them, but Bear, after bowing to the Chieftain, allowed himself to be prodded from the hall at spearpoint.

  “One last thing . . .”

  At the open door of the hall, Bear turned.

  Solwaer stared at him, eyes bright as those of a black crow. He spoke slowly and clearly. “If you harm any of my people, I will have you flayed and cast, living, into the fire pit. Do not forget.”

  Bear met his glance. “Fire is not my friend, Lord Solwaer. I will not forget.”

  CHAPTER 27

  AS SHE walked up the high street, Freya turned her phone on. No messages. Not one. What’d happened to her mates, all those friends who said how much they’d miss her? She might have dropped off the edge of the earth.

  She stopped. Adrenaline and paranoia, had they always been her drugs of choice? She so wanted comfort—a familiar voice, someone from home, someone normal. Elizabeth. She needed to be lectured, needed to be told not to be so silly.

  Freya found the number and tapped it in. Pick up, Mum. Please . . . But the phone at the other end kept ringing. She let it go all the way, just in case.

  And then she heard Elizabeth’s voice cut in. I can’t come to the phone right now, but if you leave a message I’ll return your—

  “Call. Yes, I know, Mum, but I was hoping for a chat. If you get this”—Freya looked at her watch; it was early evening in Sydney—“can you call me back? It’s Monday morning my time here, and I’ll keep my phone on. There’s lots to talk about, believe me. Love you.”

  Elizabeth would sense it, though she’d tried to be breezy; her mother could always tell when Freya was upset.

  But could she tell her why?

  Freya, an unhappy huddle on a seat in the cemetery, was staring at her father’s grave. Something was missing—the bunch of flowers she’d left only a couple of days ago was gone.

  “You wouldn’t think they’d do it, would you?” said Simon. He was leaning over the gate, smiling at her pleasantly.

  “What?”

  “Take flowers from a grave.”

  There was nothing to say to that. So much about life made Freya feel helpless now, and this was just one more small blow. “I hope they bring someone pleasure. Maybe they’re better with the living.” Embarrassed by sudden tears, she looked away.

  The gate opened, and she heard Simon crunching up the gravel path. Uninvited, he sat beside her. “Anything I can do?”

  Feeling stupid, she shook her head. She hated this fragility; she’d never been like this before, if you didn’t count childhood misery.

  “He can’t help you now”—Simon nodded at the grave—“but I can.”

  Freya attempted a watery smile. “Oh?”

  “Yes. Think about the good things.”

  She couldn’t avoid a caustic edge. “It’s that simple.”

  “Certainly.” Simon’s tone was bracing. Next best thing to Mum, thought Freya, quite surprised.

  “For starters, how many girls own an island?”

  “Islands are trouble. Capital T.” A gloomy mutter.

  “What, Findnar? Surely not.” He was droll and warm, and charming.

  “Easy for you to say.” Just a brief glance in his direction, an acknowledgment he was being kind, but Freya sighed. “Oh, it’s the different way of life, I suppose. And there’s no power at the house either.”

  “Really? Your dad didn’t fix that?”

  She stared at Simon. “You know about the power.”

  He shrugged. “My family were friends with the Buchans—the people who owned the island then. The house was empty and locked up, hadn’t been lived in for a long time, but we’d go over for a few days each summer and sleep in tents. All good, clean, primitive fun, parents and kids mucking in together.” His face softened. “The long midsummer days of childhood. In a way, I think that’s why I came back to Portsolly.”

  Freya nodded. She, too, understood the allure of holiday memories from long ago—the happy ones.

  Simon continued, “Findnar was used for grazing sheep back then, but there were no other human inhabitants—not even a shepherd.”

  Freya sat up. “I knew it! Just seems so sensible not to waste all the grass. And I pump water in the house—there’s primitive for you, but good exercise. That, and the cliff path.”

  Simon said thoughtfully, “Well, we can’t do anything about that path, but power and water are an easy fix, with a bit of cash, that is. And if it’s all too hard, you’ll get a nice price if you decide to sell for the legends alone.”

  “Legends?”

  “The last, lost hoard of pirate gold, me hearties.”

  Freya’s mood finally lifted; she even giggled at the pirate impersonation. “Dire, Simon Fettler, just dire. Can I counsel against giving up the day job?”

  He grinned. “That’s better, but it might be true. There’s a rumor, more than a rumor actually, that treasure is buried on the island. Lots of people have searched for it over the years, including us kids, of course, back then. Never found anything.”

  Freya shifted uneasily. “Everywhere has myths.”

  “Of course, and children love legends. It’s a classic thing, a quest. Hours of fun ferreting in the ruins and telling ghost stories around the campfire at night.” He fell silent, staring at Michael Dane’s grave.

  “Not just kids.” Freya stole a glance at his profile. “Simon, you’re an architect.”

  He nodded solemnly. “Last time I looked.” He smiled at her warmly.

  “I need a big piece of stone moved—a really big bit.”

  “On the island?”

  She nodded.

  “Well, you could do worse than what they did here, building this church. When they had to raise blocks of stone—big ones—they’d have built a crane on the spot.” He waved toward the steeple. “Very efficient when you look at something like that.”

  “If I was going to make one—a crane, I mean—what would I need?”

  Simon said, promptly, “Timber poles—sturdy, straight grain—and rope. And, let’s see . . . pulley blocks, a couple of slings too. Depends how big the stone is. And a bunch of good strong bolts to hold it all together. Not hard.”

  Freya pointed at the cover on her father’s grave. “But the stone I want to move is around that big. Well, longer—and wider. Thick too; quite a bit thicker, actually.” She demonstrated, holding her hands apart. Bigger, smaller, “Something like this.”

  Simon nodded patiently. Women and dimensions. “Granite?”

  She frowned. “Not sure. Would it be very expensive to make the cra
ne?”

  Simon didn’t know Freya’s financial situation, but he could guess—those references to being a student. “Well, there’s a good hardware shop in Ardleith, a real one—and a timber merchant. Not forgetting the Chandlery, too, for the ropes and pulleys, though we might go for stainless-steel cable, on second thought. I’m not sure what it would all cost, but I’ll bet we can negotiate a deal. What’s the worst they’re going to do—say no? And if it’s still too much, we can think of another way; that’s what I do. I’ve got a car, by the way—like me to drive you to Ardleith? Happy to.”

  Freya looked away. “You’re very kind, Simon. But . . .”

  “Ah, there’s a but . . .” His smile glinted.

  Here was an offer of help, a real offer. What was wrong with her? The gray lifted from Freya’s heart. “I shall say yes then, and thank you, on one condition.”

  “And that is?” Simon stretched his arms along the back of the seat. He looked at her expectantly.

  He really is very attractive, thought Freya. “I pay for your time, a professional consultation. You could come over and have a look at what’s needed before we buy anything. Just so I have an idea of cost. And while you’re on the island, you could give me advice about power and, oh, lots of things.” The words came out of her mouth so easily, but when they were said, she understood. The decision had been made. She could not leave Findnar now or she’d wonder all her life. “When would be convenient?”

  “Let me think, let me construe, let me not jump in without proper consideration.” Simon pantomimed pondering deeply. She laughed at his silliness, a delighted giggle.

  “Would today be too soon? It would be great to see the island again—apart from anything else.”